Check and Mate
by redlettergirl
Summary: Russia can decipher much from a simple game of chess. Russia   Estonia.


Russia would forthrightly admit that he paid little mind to the mid-child of his Baltics, and such was a point of neither shame nor remorse. It was but a simple fact that Estonia was less interesting than his brothers—his troubled face was not nearly as lovely as Lithuania's, and he did not shiver like a newborn kitten as Latvia did. He had neither Lithuania's beauty nor Latvia's innocence and, truth be told, he regrettably had the smartest mouth of them all. Simply put, there was just very little that Estonia had to offer; Russia sincerely doubted if he was good for anything at all.

Or, rather, he had. As they sat here now, a checkered map of the warm blacks and comfortable whites spread out between them, he was beginning to wonder if perhaps he had misjudged.

Estonia was as silent as a political dissent, lip stiff in a thoughtful grimace, all four of his eyes layered with the relics' reflections. His gaze drifted across the board, steam between the pieces, and Russia could all but feel the boy caressing them with his mind. Part of Russia was loath to admit how interesting a spectacle it was; the greater portion, however, was merely compelled to watch.

His options mapped out and next three maneuvers carefully plotted, Estonia finally moved, fingers delicately lifting a knight free of its square. A few paces of hard-won freedom and it returned to the board, its director lifting his hand away with composed certainty. "Check."

Russia smiled in return (and was quite pleased when Estonia flinched slightly), taking a moment to glance languidly about his miniature fighting force. He was short his knight and a bishop, and his army was sadly the less for their loss. The presence of Estonia's rook, second knight, and infantry of pawns on his side was very near enough to a suitable replacement. If he could perhaps escort Estonia's queen into his barracks, such casualties would be exponentially more acceptable.

Estonia, however, was not so simple of a foe as he was in the outside world. Yet again Russia's king had been wrested into the path of danger, and Russia was obliged to attend him. It was not a situation that he was entirely used to; his last defeat in true warfare seemed eons away by now, and a loss at chess was simply not a concept he could recall encountering. However, on this calm, quiet, bloodless battlefield—he took hold of a pearl-white bishop, the marble kissing gently against his fingers as it knocked aside Estonia's knight—it was not too disastrous, perhaps, to meet the matter with a twinge of curiosity.

The silence wrapped around them like a winter shawl, the nighttime blizzard beyond the windows finding no place to penetrate the world of their game. Estonia said nothing as his piece fell—his gaze, if anything, grew more intense, eyes narrowing with a sort of determination Russia could not help but find delightful.

It was so foreign an idea, truly. In the everyday, he could tweak Estonia's nose if he so wished. Here, however, there was something more to the man. Here, boldness found its escape in eyes that burned with a slow, smoldering sort of heat, washing across the table like a warm ocean wave.

Russia's smile only grew. He was fond of the way that heat drifted across his skin, seeped beneath.

Estonia, perhaps, was not so plain as he once knew. Fingers weaving languidly together beneath his own chin, Russia rested his elbows on the tabletop, gazing across the battlefield at his enticingly intent enemy. Had the line of Estonia's jaw always curved so nicely? His shoulders set this handsomely? And those eyes, too—those eyes that sparkled now, lighting just so behind glaring lenses, and how they caused the corner of Estonia's lip to curl devilishly as his hand began to move—

Russia was not entirely sure what had happened, but did not mind once it was done. It was not such an unfortunate development, really, and how it warmed his heart when Estonia jumped, face twisting just so. Reaching the other man's ankle, Russia's foot moved to the inside of Estonia's calf of its own volition, leather on khaki as it began a slow assent.

"Oh, go on, Estonia," he said, chuckling at the shaking of the Baltic's hand. How delightful. Hmm, indeed, perhaps he had underestimated the man.

Then Estonia's hand drew away, fingers stalling in their path to his queen and changing course. Plucking meekly at the head of a pawn, he dropped the little soldier uselessly on the next acceptable square before shrinking back into his seat.

The smile disintegrated from Russia's face within the moment, his eyes narrowing at the board. His king was safe, the enemy falling back to leave him in the bosom of security. Russia, however, could not bring himself to appreciate it. The outside world was beginning to sneak in on that pawn's heels.

"That was not the move you were planning, was it, Estonia?" he said, a mockery of his earlier grin painting his lips.

Estonia was quiet, growing smaller in his chair before Russia's eyes. The toe of Russia's boot stalled against the inside of Estonia's knee, and the cold of the outside began to prick at Russia's cheeks. "O-of course it was..."

"Ah, I don't think so." The boot's sole was against the chair's seat in an instant, Russia's eyes locking with Estonia's as the other twitched in fear. "I think you should make the move that you had planned to, da?"

What fright sat behind those glasses now, delicious in Russia's sight but heavy upon his heart. He could feel General Winter drawing near, seeping through cracked window-panes, drawing up about his shoulders. How the General would rend the Baltic in twain, let the cold taint the man's blood and fear draw him back, away, leaving Russia the victor at the game's end.

Even as his heel pushed down harder upon the wood and worn red fabric, he sighed lightly, glancing at their frozen armies as the outside world came to overtake him. How silly to hope, and yet he had—thought that, perhaps, just this once, he might—

The fingers upon the queen's base shaking with enough force to topple her, she came down on the left portion of the field. "C-checkmate."

Silently, eyes wide, Russia studied the board. As Estonia's gaze wavered in fear, his queen's was pointed, steadfast, at Russia's proud king. Her bishop, her rook, both perfectly positioned, leaving Russia's king no haven, no means of—

The king went down gracelessly, crashing amongst his defeated army as their battlefield was swept aside and flung to the wooden floor. General Winter drew away, back through the fissures, into the reality from whence he came. Estonia's shrieks of fright were silenced under the weight of Russia's lips.

And ah, how wrong Russia had been. Estonia's troubled face was quite beautiful, indeed.


End file.
